Lily
by gummibar
Summary: It baffled her, how her afternoons had been spent listening to the fluttering heartbeat in her own belly one minute, and then spent in silence and quiet tears the next. As if it had never existed. As if they'd never managed to create an actual life. Just... gone. (Jeremie x Aelita)


She remembers the first time she found out.

She remembers the excitement, most of all. Rocking back and forth on her heels, bouncing with joy just _waiting _for him to get off work. Oh, the look on his face when she'd tell him. The door hadn't even opened an inch before she sprinted into his arms, a peck on the cheek, a smooch on the lips and wide eyes of astonishment because he had no idea what the _hell _had gotten into her.

And then she said it. And it was magnificent. It was so _wonderful_. He wrapped his arms around her waist and twirled her around in the air, but then immediately put her down and realized perhaps it wasn't good for the baby.

Or her nausea_. Definitely_ not for her nausea.

Neither of them could wait to start shopping around. They had quirky little fights over names—whether they'd be a boy or a girl, whether they'd be as smart as daddy or as artistic as mommy. What colors would they _possibly_ choose for the nursery?

Then, one morning, she woke up a little earlier. And she didn't feel sick anymore.

She thought it was a miracle. They laughed it off.

And then she remembers waking up in the middle of the night. Trying to scream, but every sound catching in the back of her throat along with her sobs. Hot tears splashing on her cheeks, heart racing with confusion and fear, and her stomach twisting in knots. Unbearable, unimaginable pain—and blood. _So_ _much _blood. Everywhere. A steady stream, trickling down her leg and the pearl white sheets already destroyed.

It baffled her, how her afternoons had been spent listening to the fluttering heartbeat in her own belly one minute, and then spent in silence and quiet tears the next. As if it had never existed. As if they'd _never _managed to create an _actual life. _Just…_gone._

There wasn't much to bury—she'd only been two months along. But in memoriam, along the wall of their barren bookcase had been placed a vase of roses. Beautiful, blood-red ones, that glimmered underneath the sunlight from their window. It was better than letting the empty shelf-top collect dust.

She would sit on the couch, legs crossed, staring at that vase and everything that could have been. If they would have been tall. If they'd have been a doctor; if they'd have been an author. What color eyes they would have had. Instead, her child had been reduced to store bought flowers in a container of dirt.

She felt empty.

He would still come home from work and wrap her arms around her waist, his hands resting against her tummy just out of sheer habit. And then they would both frown, and he'd slowly pull away.

It wasn't too long before she found out that she had once again been blessed with life. She was hopeful, this time. They both were. Although the doctor had reassured time and time again that it was _not_ her fault, and that it wasn't something that could have been prevented, they took extra precautions—just in case.

She made it a little farther along that time. The sound of both hearts beating nearly in sync with one another, a soothing melody that put them both to sleep. Her slowly bulging stomach, serving as his personal pillow on their lazy days. It was a girl, they'd found out.

He thought she had been going a _little _overboard with the pink. But he only smiled and leaned against the frame of the door, watching her standing on her tip toes and desperately trying to reach the highest corners of the walls, not realizing she was letting paint drip onto the floor.

They needed new carpet for that room, anyway.

But then later that night, she sprang upwards in her bed with a phenomenal cramp that left her heart sinking into the pits of her roiling stomach. A feeling she was far too familiar with. She threw off the covers and made a run for the bathroom—with him, wide awake and right behind her. And all he could do was rest his hands against her shoulders, stroke her back while she knelt on the ground choking on her own sobs.

He came home one day to see her kneeling in the front yard, digging up the Earth around the sidewalk—her face mixed with soil and wetness, he could only assume she'd been crying. When he asked what she'd been doing, she shook her head and demanded amongst a quivering voice that she didn't want her child stuck in a vase. No, their baby needed to grow. Babies were_ supposed_ to grow up. They were supposed to _live._

He got down on his hands and knees and helped her plant the roses. The next day, he came home with a pot of bleeding hearts.

It seemed appropriate.

Every time he took a step in the hallway, he'd always pass that room. Dark, empty, the pastel pink walls now collecting dust and drips of paint still caked onto the carpet. An empty crib, shoved into the corner. He'd turn away once he felt a lump rising in his throat, wondering what they'd ever do with that room.

The third time would have been a boy. They had even already picked a name out, some time back. That name was then given to a bundle of purple anemones.

And one night, with neither of them able to sleep, she rested her head on his chest and just stared at the ceiling in deafening silence. When he felt the splash of tears on his chest he wrapped an arm around her, tugged her closer, and all she could do was say over and over again how it was her fault. _All her fault. _How she should have known better; than to think she could give him a child, a family. Than to think there would be nothing wrong with her body, than to think she'd ever be able to create a family of her own when she'd lost everything else.

She wondered if there would ever be a time when she _didn't _lose. And he ran his fingers through her hair, held her tightly and cooed in her ears that it _wasn't _her fault. That it was okay; that he didn't blame her. But in the depths of his own mind, whether or not he'd ever accept it, he contemplated if maybe, just _maybe—_if _maybe_ he blamed her after all.

When she found out she was with child, for what was now the fourth occasion, she blinked at the doctor and uttered not one word. He handed her his coat and she slid off of the exam table, walked right out and didn't look back even once. She spent the rest of the evening sitting on the bench in their front yard, hands resting on her chin and her dreary eyes focused on the three little groups of flowers sitting in what she dared to call a garden. The roses were drooping; the bleeding hearts were withering away. She laughed at herself, laughed at the petals littering the soil. She couldn't even take care of a garden. Perhaps it was no wonder that she couldn't bring a child into the world.

He joined her side hours later, waiting for her to speak—if she ever _did _speak. And after a long moment of painful silence, she glanced over at him; her once bright, green eyes, now dull and coated with sorrow and fading hope.

She muttered that a few lilies might look nice.

He agreed that they would complement the roses.

But Jeremie and Aelita's garden never did grow any bigger.


End file.
